Jockeys and Jewels

by Bev Pettersen

  An expectant hush blanketed the stands. Kurt’s breathing grew shallow as he strained to see. The gates sprung, the horses charged out and Julie’s veteran was right there, holding his own with the youngsters. That old horse had fooled everyone.

  They ran in a bunch, a tight knot of bobbing horses identifiable only by the bright silks. But when the pack entered the turn they stretched out. Bixton was third, two wide, but galloping fluidly. Julie had Skippy galloping fifth along the rail; her horse didn't look at all sleepy now.

  They swept around the turn. It was a soft pace, and Bixton easily grabbed the lead. Kurt found Julie's bobbing green silks, tight on the inside, stalking the leaders, her horse comfortably in hand.

  At the half-mile pole, the horses in the back edged up. Julie, snug on the rail, had no place to go. Skippy was passed in a wave, boxed in and pushed back to seventh.

  “Let’s see what you do now, sweetie,” Kurt murmured, pressing the binoculars closer to his face.

  Off the backstretch, a blinkered horse in front of Julie drifted wide, and she muscled Skippy into the opening. Skippy scudded forward, splitting horses and finding running room.

  “Go, baby!” Kurt dropped his binoculars and leaped to his feet, ignoring the curious glance from the woman in front of him.

  Now there were only two horses in front of Julie. Bixton still led when they hit the top of the stretch, but he was chased by a fast-closing gray. Skippy loomed two lengths back, gamely battling to catch them both.

  Bixton went to his stick, whacking rhythmically, pleading for every drop of energy. But his mount was tired, and the gray edged past. So did Skippy.

  What a gallant horse! Kurt watched the old gelding strain for the wire. Julie waved her stick twice but didn't touch him. No one watching the horse could ever doubt his effort. They swept across the finish line, the gray first, Skippy a length back and Bixton clinging to third.

  Kurt cheered with the crowd, his admiration keeping him on his feet. Julie had managed to bring a long shot up for second. Skippy wasn't the fastest runner in the field or the most talented, but the old horse was ratable and had tons of courage. She’d given him a good trip too, saving ground on the rail and not bullying him down the stretch. Not surprising the horse ran his heart out for her.

  Kurt zigzagged down the steps and dodged a slew of muttering people to join Adam who leaned over the rail, cheering as Julie trotted Skippy back.

  The horse was filthy. Dirt smeared his head and chest, but there was a bounce in his step, and he preened for the crowd, obviously energized by the attention. Julie pulled her saddle off, gave the smiling trainer an exuberant handshake and bounced to the scales.

  “Thanks for cutting me off back there, Jules.”

  Bixton's drawl was unmistakable. Kurt stiffened as the jockey strutted up behind Julie and tapped her on the shoulder with his whip. However, she turned, white teeth shining through her muddy face. They walked away together, seemingly the best of buddies.

  “Damn good race,” Adam said. “Did you have any money on it?”

  Kurt jerked his gaze off the two jockeys. “Yeah. But nothing I can cash.”

  “Too bad.” Adam smugly brandished his own tickets. “Julie will be thrilled with that race. First time she’s ever finished ahead of Bixton.”

  “Are they good friends?” Kurt asked, staring at the results illuminated on the giant board, trying to pretend he wasn’t at all interested in Adam’s answer.

  “Yeah, real good friends,” Adam said, “but that doesn’t mean Bixton likes to lose. He wants the riding title again this year.”

  Kurt waited, hoping for more, but Adam’s head dipped over his Racing Form. Real good friends? What did that mean?

  He glanced over his shoulder as Julie paused and passed her goggles to a wide-eyed fan. The young girl had braces and a horse photo on her shirt, and she clutched the souvenir in delight, ecstatic with the gift.

  Bixton stopped and waited for Julie to precede him into the jockeys’ room. The guy was still smiling, cocky as ever despite riding the beaten favorite. Kurt wondered if they sat together between races or if Julie stayed in the female section. The door closed, and they were gone.

  “Have you named a jockey for your big horse yet?” Adam asked.

  “Not yet,” Kurt said, turning his attention back to Adam. “But I’ll know by the end of the night.”

  “If you don’t use Julie, Bixton is by far the best rider around.” Adam shook his head with grudging respect. “He came up from Montana and was Alberta’s Jockey of the Year. Now, Alberta isn’t the bellybutton of racing, but you can't win awards like that without a shitload of talent.”

  “So he and Otto are both Americans?” Kurt leaned closer to Adam. “Do they travel together?”

  “No, Bixton’s been here for three years. Otto just showed up last spring. What do you think of the three horse?”

  Kurt studied the form above Adam’s tapping finger. The three horse had speed but usually burned out on the front end. “Looks okay if his rider can rate him,” he said. “Probably impossible for the jock to do though.”

  “Exactly what I thought.” Adam scribbled something and flipped to the next race. “I’m not betting Julie in the seventh,” he said as he gnawed the tip of his pencil. “Otto’s mare doesn’t have a hope in hell. Not unless he slips her some potent drugs.”

  “That would be stupid, with all the testing,” Kurt said, watching Adam's face.

  “I never said Otto was smart.” Adam spoke without lifting his head from The Form. “Think I’ll put the three horse over the five.”

  Kurt glanced at the man’s program, watching as Adam agonized over every selection. Julie’s father was very serious about his handicapping. Cryptic marks and circles slashed each page, but his bets were modest and placed in the spirit of fun.

  Unlike Otto’s.

  Kurt pushed himself away from the rail. “I’m going back to the barn to grab a halter.”

  Adam just grunted, engrossed with comparing information in The Racing Form to that shown in the track program.

  Kurt strolled along the path, passing horses being led over for the sixth race. The handlers’ faces were taut, as though headed into battle, a stark contrast to the relaxed expressions of trainers leading runners back. He saw Skippy and the horse’s dour trainer walking in front of him, so he lengthened his stride.

  “Your horse ran a nice race,” Kurt said as he moved alongside. “You sure had him ready.”

  “Thanks.” A smile edged beneath the man’s moustache. “I thought the race would suit, and the West girl gave him a good trip.”

  “She sure did.” Kurt nodded his agreement and veered off onto the path to G barn. He was still twenty feet from the door when he heard scuffling, a curse, the crack of leather. He eased inside, taut with curiosity.

  Otto blocked the aisle, his hand twisted around Country Girl’s tender lip as he rammed a ring bit in her mouth. He mashed her ears with the crownpiece and the mare reared. Her shoes scraped the concrete as she desperately scrambled for a foothold.

  “Fuck!” Otto grabbed her left ear and twisted, forcing her head back down. His breath escaped in a series of grunts as he buckled the throatlatch then lashed a chain beneath her upper lip, where it clanged against her teeth.

  Kurt winced. “Ever tried asking her politely?” he said.

  Otto jerked around. The mare saw his inattention and struck with her right foreleg but Otto leaped sideways, yanking retribution with the chain.

  Kurt jammed his hands in his pockets and forced himself to remain silent. The mare wouldn't have to put up with Otto’s brutish attention much longer. She just had to make it through the next thirty minutes.

  “Get me that fucking Sandra,” Otto growled. “She can lead the bitch over.”

  “She's on her way.” Kurt didn’t budge from the doorway.

  The desperate mare lunged sideways. Otto yanked her back and wrestled her outside, glowering at Kurt as he passed.

>   Thud, thud. The rhythmic beat of a trotting horse grew louder. Probably Sandra. Kurt hoped she didn’t mention he had paid her to pick up Country Girl. Otto had no reason to suspect there was a claim on his horse, but still, it had been a risk. Kurt edged closer to the door, straining to hear.

  “Want me to lead her over for you, Otto?” Sandra’s holler carried into the barn.

  “Yeah, but I ain’t paying you.”

  “Let me slip my lead on, and you can take your chain,” Sandra said. “Easy, girl.”

  Kurt heard the scramble of hooves and another curse. Dust billowed through the doorway and he stepped back, covering his nose, trying not to sneeze.

  “Fucking bitch,” Otto muttered. “She bit me.”

  “Serves you right,” Sandra said.

  The knot between Kurt’s shoulders eased. Sandra seemed to believe he was only trying to help Julie when he’d paid for an escort. She didn’t realize he’d dropped a claim on Otto’s rebellious mare. Their voices faded, and Kurt headed down the aisle to grab a halter.

  The door of Country Girl’s stall was open, and he poked his head in. Filthy, dark and depressing. Poor horse. It hadn’t been cleaned since Kurt’s night visit, and the manure had compacted in dense layers.

  He closed the door on the stinking stall, hoping to keep the odor contained, then continued down the aisle. Jerked to a stop. The door to Otto’s tack room was ajar and definitely unlocked.

  A rare opportunity.

  He checked the aisle. Two people whooped with laughter as they sponged a horse. A stable hand pushed a heavily laden wheelbarrow while humming off-key to blaring music. No one watched. Everyone was absorbed with their own activities.

  He slipped into Otto's tack room.

  A snarl of equipment hung off hooks fashioned from crude nails. An X-shaped chain complete with leg bands jangled under his curious fingers. Draped next to it were a homemade war bridle and a casting harness.

  He blew out a sympathetic breath for Otto's horses. The devices were useful tools in an expert’s hands, but he doubted Otto had much finesse. With Otto, it was merely cruel.

  A dented steel box squatted in the corner. Kurt tugged at the padlock. Locked. But with time and the right instrument, he could open it. A faded army blanket was folded on a chair and littered with pocket castoffs: a mixture of American and Canadian coins, a clump of wrinkled betting tickets and an empty tin of chewing tobacco. Nothing illegal. Nothing murderous.

  He blew out a sigh and headed back to the paddock, telling himself it didn’t matter. Soon he’d own Otto’s horse. Soon he’d have answers.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sandra slouched on her horse in a cozy huddle with the other pony people. The escort horses stood outside the paddock, heads down, tails swishing, looking as relaxed as their riders.

  Kurt paused by Sandra. “Guess you persuaded Otto’s mare to make the walk over. Any problems?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle, but that mare is sure scared.” Sandra turned in the saddle and gestured at the paddock. “She used a lot of energy and is completely lathered. Julie won’t have much horse left for the race.” Sandra flicked her ponytail off her shoulder and grimaced. “Too bad I already laid my bets.”

  “The mare might not win any money,” Kurt said, “but the crowd loves her.” He walked over to the saddling enclosure where onlookers squeezed around the rail, gaping with morbid interest at the rebellious mare.

  An official tried to check her tattoo, but when he reached for her mouth, she lashed out with a protective leg. He dodged in time, but his clipboard hit the dirt.

  Otto yanked the mare’s nose sideways, grabbing her left ear. The official sidled back to the subdued horse and flipped her upper lip. He checked his list, nodded and moved on to the next horse.

  Kurt’s eyes narrowed as he watched the identification process. Every racehorse had a unique tattoo so unless the official was part of the conspiracy, Otto couldn't be substituting ringers. Probably her real value was for legitimizing Otto’s border crossings between Canada and the States.

  But what the hell was he moving?

  Kurt was still pondering the smuggling concept when Julie's valet appeared with saddle and cloth draped over an arm. The mare trembled, her body slick with sweat, but she was locked in place by Otto’s ear twist. The valet laid the saddlecloth on her back, followed with the tiny saddle then gingerly reached around to buckle the undergirth.

  The man standing to Kurt's left chuckled. “The guy with the seven horse will have trouble now. He doesn’t have much help, and when he lets go of her ear that mare will explode. She's a death trap.”

  Kurt edged forward, watching as the valet stepped around the mare and quickly tightened the second girth. Too quickly? The image of a slipping saddle and Julie vanishing beneath a horde of hooves made his gut wrench.

  The paddock judge bellowed, “Riders up!” and Kurt sucked in a breath, wishing the race were over. Judging by the mare's panicked appearance, Julie was about to have the ride of her life.

  Otto released his twist on Country Girl's ear. She leaped from the enclosure like a scalded cat. The crowd chortled when she snapped out with both legs and seesawed in the air.

  Otto yanked at the reins, using brute force to pull her to the ground, and someone stepped up and boosted Julie into the gyrating saddle. The mare arched her back and crow-hopped, putting the crowd in another titter.

  Kurt’s mouth compressed as he jammed his hands in his pockets. Idiots. Didn’t they know how dangerous this was?

  “Ride 'em, cowgirl!” someone yelled, and cold beer sloshed his arm as two men joined their plastic glasses in a clumsy toast.

  “I’d like to ride her,” the second man said. “Can’t see her face but the body’s prime.”

  Something pulsed in Kurt’s head, but he turned slowly, deliberately, raking them with a scowl perfected from nine years' of police work. The two drinkers averted their heads. Turned silent.

  He dismissed them and dropped his completed claim in the box, then watched the horses as they paraded from the ring toward the patient group of escort riders. Sandra slipped her lead around the mare, took control from Otto and ushered Country Girl and Julie onto the track.

  The mare kicked at Otto in a last show of defiance then quit bouncing and shoved her nose into Okie's mane, as though relieved to see a barn mate. Except for her washy appearance, nothing indicated she was the unruly animal who had entertained the paddock crowd.

  Kurt slipped through the spectators to a spot in front of the grandstand but kept his gaze on Country Girl. Had the mare’s behavior sparked Connor’s interest? She nursed an uncommon hatred for Otto but Connor had never been much of a horse enthusiast. It was unlikely he’d picked up on her odd behavior.

  Kurt blew out a sigh, reluctant to admit he might be guilty of tunnel vision and that perhaps the investigation was off target. The results of a vet check could even shift his focus. He wanted the mare to incriminate Otto, would feel no remorse about nailing such a man, but he needed evidence.

  Julie's yellow silks broke away from the parade of horses as she cantered Country Girl past the grandstand. There was a slight hitch in the mare’s gait, but no scratches were announced. She'd made it past the track vet.

  “Julie’s going off at big odds,” Adam said as he joined Kurt. “Maybe I should bet on her after all.” But his voice had a ragged edge, and his furrowed gaze hung on the moving spot of yellow, tiny now against the stretch of brown dirt.

  Kurt scanned his program. Country Girl’s form wasn’t much worse than the bunch she raced against—fillies and mares, non-winners of three—but her erratic behavior would trouble even the most optimistic of bettors. She still had to face the pressure of the starting gate, normal race jostling as well as the boisterous Friday-night crowd. Otto had the mare cranked so tight she was a bomb waiting to explode.

  He swallowed, trying to ease his dry throat, and his gaze shot to the ambulance. It always followed the riders, was usuall
y a reassuring presence, but tonight the sight of the familiar orange and white vehicle only increased his edginess.

  “Otto's horse isn't that bad.” Adam pulled off his Stetson and a drop of sweat slid along his forehead. “The race is only a sprint. Those bush horses are tough. All she has to do is stay on her feet. Just get home safe. With her rider. All she has to do.” He wiped his glistening brow and clumsily readjusted his hat.

  “Let’s watch from the grandstand,” Kurt said, unable to resist the compulsion to view the race from a proven spot. His superstitions always kicked in when he was helpless to affect the outcome. Both Julie and Skippy had come home safely when he watched from section twelve, row eighteen.

  They climbed the concrete stairs. Adam turned and checked over his shoulder every second step. By the time they reached Kurt's spot, high in the grandstand, the man’s brow dripped with sweat, and he once again readjusted his hat.

  “Julie has the outside hole. She'll have to boot and scoot.” Adam’s voice cracked. “Or she’ll be hung out to dry on the turn. Damn, I hope that mare will run the hook. One of Otto’s horses crashed through the rail last year. Charged through, never slowed a step. Jock’s still in a wheelchair.”

  Jesus, man, be quiet. “At least the mare won’t have to stand in the gate long,” Kurt said through clenched teeth. “That’s the last thing she needs.” Adam’s face blanched so he quickly added, “But she seems to have the mare settled now. Settled real good.”

  Julie’s yellow silks disappeared into the last slot, and the gate crew slammed the door.

  “She’s in,” Adam said, echoing the announcer’s words.

  The doors burst open.

  “Look at that mare blast out,” Adam said. “She’s going to get the rail. Atta girl, Julie!”

  “Nice,” Kurt said as Julie coolly took possession of the rail, riding as though she had complete faith in her mount. Riding as though her horse was completely sound.